I have been doing a lot more plurking than blogging lately, due to the fact that I most often can come up with two lines to quickly surmise my day rather than blather on about subjects I feel are exhausted, though I think they are just weary from running about in my head rather than being put to words. I’ve started writing in a paper journal again, something that I haven’t done in perhaps a year or so plus. I do so now on the move, subversively, most often at work, and without fear of some 13 year old schizophrenic ripping whatever it is I’m scribbling on out of my hands or attempting to grab my pen and jam it in his/her eye. I feel like myself again; a stable and comfortable version of me, I should say, who has time to think about things once more. And while thinking has historically sent me off into the worst of situations, I believe that not having time to do so in the past two years has made me angrier than I have been in a very long time. What more, it hasn’t been the explosive type of anger - that anger, on some level, is very forgivable. There are typically reasons behind it, the most common variety being along the lines of “oh, well, someone hit her car today in the parking lot and drove off” or “oh, well, she got into a fight with her friend/brother/mom/etc” or even “oh, well, she’s hormonal.” It’s harder to explain away the type of slow, seething anger that makes you seriously want to take a bat to someone’s kneecaps, or slash the tires of not only the target of your ire’s car but of his/her friends and relatives as well, or painstakingly plan out the details of stealing someone’s identity and ruining their credit. That type of anger is unforgivable.

I’m going to segue into something completely different now:

I was going home the other night from work and decided to pick up Jimmy John’s for dinner. In case you are not fortunate to have a Jimmy John’s in your locale, I feel bad for you on a scale comparable to how I would feel if you had no taste buds. Anyhow, at Jimmy John’s, they have a large amount of kitsch phrases on the wall, including “work like you don’t need the money, love like you’ve never been hurt, and dance like nobody is watching.” While I see where the other two have some sort of upbeat validity, what the hell does “work like you don’t need the money” mean anyhow? While I was pondering this, the boy who made my sandwich came by, gave me a smile I am practically positive he has spent many an hour perfecting in front of a mirror, and told me my glasses were cute. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t a day older than 21. I just accepted the complement and went about my old and crotchety way. I had hung out with Flapjacks a few nights ago and, given that the bar was particularly preppy that night, noticed a girl with glasses similar to mine and wondered why she was wearing them or what makes anyone wear them as a fashion accessory, for that matter. I developed a cyst on my right eye when I was 16 from one of my contacts not being properly sterilized, despite having soaked them in solution. Had it been a centimeter over, I would have more than likely went blind in that eye. Glasses have seemed like a pretty good option ever since then. Maybe that was her deal too. I also have had the odd experience of guys occasionally attempting to buy me a beer “because I wear glasses” as well. Maybe that was her deal too.

People are weird. I should go to sleep.